


When the Night Comes

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Smut, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Crowley is struggling to cope with trauma after watching the bookshop burn. Being both horrible at feelings and communicating, he tries to deal with it himself. Aziraphale has other ideas.





	When the Night Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Who would finish their 250,001 WIPs instead of writing a few thousand words of hurt/comfort and smut? Definitely not this guy.
> 
> So here we are. Again apologies on errors, eventually I plan on cleaning all of these up but doing stuff is hard. 
> 
> As always, be kind. 💕

Demons aren’t, traditionally, predisposed to dreaming. It’s surprising considering that human interpretation of demonic activity, specifically possession, can so often come in the form of nightmares. In reality, very few demons take the Freddy Kruger approach; most prefer a more hands-on use of the deadly sins to damn human souls to The Pit. Even more surprising, actually, is that even fewer demons have nightmares of their own. One would think that with the physical, emotional, metaphysical, and celestial pain associated with Falling that demons would be plagued; somewhat of an occult PTSD if you will. This would also be incorrect. In some ways, it could be interpreted as a mercy; one last shred of Grace from the Almighty Herself protecting the legions of Fallen from reliving their worst moment for eons. Others may assume that it was a functional explanation; demons don't sleep so why would they experience dream activity? For Crowley's money, he'd assume that it was just a way to leave him wildly unprepared for what turns out to be an extremely human reaction to stress. After all, what's a little existential dread sprinkled on the soul of one of the Damned?

It starts with a garden, and a gate, and an Angel, and if Crowley'd had even an ounce of foresight he probably should've just thrown himself off of said gate, took the inconvenient discorporation (paperwork and all), and moved onto an assignment that was less emotionally fraught. Because he knows. Crowley may be the reigning King of avoiding his own feelings (since about 4004 BC, give or take), but even he can't avoid the fact that he's wildly, unfortunately, and irrevocably emotionally compromised. That's how he finds himself brooding, perched on the edge of his Mayfair building, and wondering when exactly he'll be able to sleep again.

He really thought that this insomnia lark would've reared its ugly head the night he dropped Adam off in Tadfield with the Satanic Nuns of the Chattering something-or-other. Crowley had stopped paying attention as soon as Hastur and Ligur started explaining his role in bringing about the End Times so the details are fuzzy. It's also important to note that the only real thing he'd be thinking at the time was a feedback loop of _"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, I should call Aziraphale, fuck I can't get through, fuck that's my fault with the stupid bloody mobile networks, shit, shit..."_ so he doesn't remember much up until he got a hold of the Angel from a phone booth.

Instead, he remained uncharacteristically goal-focused throughout the subsequent 11 years. Right up until his world dropped out from underneath him and never quite righted itself.

In tandem with his compulsive need to lock every emotion he'd ever felt in a chained box never to be seen again, Crowley has relied upon a frivolous, indefatigable optimism that reassured him that everything would be completely fine. It was that optimism that told him to talk to the Guardian of the Eastern Gate with the flaming sword because what's the worst that could happen? It was what made him walk into a blasted _church_ of all things to save the Angel's sorry behind several millennia later, because it'd turn out just fine, right? Save for his Fall, things just kind of _worked out_ for Crowley most of the time. Unfortunately, Crowley was also outfitted with a hefty dose of anxiety and a preternaturally acute sense of when things are about to take a one-way ticket Downstairs, so when the Apocalypse was only a scant few hours away and Crowley couldn't reach Aziraphale he raced towards the bookshop without thinking. He was quickly confronted with a reality worse than anything his demonic brain could've conjured up should he have been asked. The bookshop, a comforting backdrop to the last 200 years which typically housed the only being he felt _Things™_ for, was ablaze; angry red and orange flames were just _pouring_ out of the building and everything smelled like ash. He had run in without a second thought, screaming for his best friend, for the living heart outside of his wretched, damned body, but was found wanting. He'd never really thought that his corporation's organs meant anything. Sure, he'd breathe when he remembered, and he appreciated his liver for trying mightily to process the copious amounts of alcohol he consumed, but overall it was for show. At that moment, he understood why humans would say that they felt their heart stop. He felt it. Hell, he's pretty sure it did stop. What he's unsure of is if it really ever started again.

If one were to wonder how someone saunters directly into the Apocalypse, Crowley can give you an answer with the resounding surety of someone who's been there before. It turns out it's rather simple when you've lost everything you love and are unsure if you'll ever get it back.

\---

Somehow, as things were wont to do in Crowley's life, things kind of just work out. He's smart enough to know that he played very little of a role in thwarting the plans of Heaven and Hell alike. Really, when it comes down to it, all he did was have a pretty public meltdown, give a two-second pep-talk to an 11-year-old, and snark his way into the bad books of Hell. The only benefit to the latter was that he got to breathe literal hellfire at Gabriel's smug face. Ever the optimist, Crowley can take that lovely memory with him to his grave. Wherever and whenever that may be. But, in the end, he and Aziraphale ended up as free agents, Earth was unharmed, and everything should be fine. Tickety-boo even.

Unfortunately, things are not quite tickety at all. Or perhaps they are, considering the phrase has mostly been utilized as a misnomer in Crowley's experience.

The evening after they pull off their body-swapping rouse, they retire to the bookshop; Aziraphale to familiarize himself with his new inventory and Crowley to skulk about and be generally in the way as much as possible. Wine is shared, followed by whiskey, and there's a heaviness to the air that he isn't used to. After his eighth (perhaps ninth, or eleventh really if he's being honest) drink he starts to feel his eyes close. Aziraphale looks over to him fondly, definitely too fondly because it makes Crowley's heart race and it makes him want to do _something_ and gets up from his arm chair. He grabs a worn old blanket from behind Crowley and lays it over him. Crowley is unsure of exactly what's happening until Aziraphale crouches down before him and says, "Go ahead, take a rest my dear. You've earned it."

He can't unpack everything he sees in his friend's face, so he does exactly as is suggested and lets the warmth of the bookshop and Aziraphale's company and the liquor carry him off to sleep.

Suddenly, he can smell the flames, he can feel them licking at his feet and his wrists and he can feel the soot in his hair, and he cannot find Aziraphale anywhere. He isn't sure if it's holy fire or hellfire or just regular old fire, but he does know that he can't sense the Angel's presence anywhere. He can _always_ sense Aziraphale's presence. Even from halfway around the blasted world so he knows, he just _knows_ that the worst has happened. His heart breaks inside his chest and he can't breathe. There's a pressure on his shoulder that he can't parse out and he's grabbing at it, but he can't see it. He can't see anything, and his Angel is _gone_.

He comes to _screaming_ into the back room of the bookshop and he cannot breathe. He's gulping air but it isn't helping and he's losing everything all over again and he _can't_. Aziraphale's worried blue eyes are boring into his, panicked and dilated. "Crowley, what's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?" He's running his hands all over Crowley's chest and neck and face.

"M'fine, just a-" he flounders for a word, "cramp?" The excuse is feeble at best and a bold-faced lie at worst. He can tell the Angel bought precisely none of it but he also knows that he needs to take his leave immediately and go to his Bentley or his flat or _somewhere_ to have the complete mental breakdown he's been holding back by sheer force of will for the past almost-48 hours.

"Sure is late, I should be off!" He practically yells startling Aziraphale. He throws the blanket back of the sofa and stalks quickly to the door. The last thing he hears is a quiet, heartbroken "Please stay" from Aziraphale before the door is closed, he's in the Bentley and driving 90 miles per hour towards _anywhere_.

He ends up in St. James Park because of course he does. He collapses on the bench, hyperventilating, and when he goes to take his sunglasses off, he realizes he forgot them. He also realizes that he's crying. He hasn't cried since the Fall and is shocked by the presence of tears. For some reason he didn't think himself capable anymore (the eye roll from the Almighty at this thought is palpable). Bending over at the waist and curling his legs up toward himself, he buries his face in his knees and _sobs_ for all he's worth; for feeling like he lost his best friend, for feeling like he'd never get to put a name to the warm fluttery feeling he gets when he's around the Angel, for staring death in the face and giving it a two-finger salute, for realizing that had they been less competent at the very end the love of his life (yep, that's the feeling!) would've burned up in hellfire at the behest of his celestial brethren. He feels pathetic but it's also cathartic and when he brings his head up an indeterminable amount of time later the Sun is cresting in the sky and painting it in a swath of warm pastels. He feels centered enough to take this pity party elsewhere.

Crowley slinks off to his car, then to his flat, downs half a bottle of wine for fortitude in one go, and face plants on his bed dropping almost immediately into a deep slumber.

A short time later he smells fire again. He feels the flames and the despair and the pain in his throat from screaming. When he wakes, he realizes that the latter was due to him _actually_ screaming; his throat is raw and it hurts to swallow. Perhaps sleeping is something he should table for the time being. Instead, he figures that maybe he needs a change of scenery; both his flat and the bookshop might be a bit too much for him just yet. He books himself a rental just outside of the city and leaves immediately. He thinks that he probably should've invited Aziraphale or at least told him where he'd be, but he figures that with his less than suave exit and the trauma of losing the bookshop (albeit temporarily) the Angel wouldn't want another shakeup. The back of his mind screams at him that he's a coward and he can't really argue.

\---

It's been five days and he hasn't slept a wink. Every time he closes his eyes it's a sensory assault so he mostly just drinks, gets high, and keeps to himself inside his small rental. The positive is that he has a lot of time to think. Crowley thinks about why it is that he can't stop thinking about almost losing Aziraphale. He thinks about the pit in his stomach when the Angel told him, _"I don't even like you"_ and how it had sent ice through his veins. He thinks about why he can't stop thinking about the Angel's face and hands and, if he's being totally honest his arse, and comes to a long-awaited and, honestly not that challenging to come-by, conclusion. He's in love. Demons aren't supposed to be in love, definitely not with Angels, but he thinks that he probably found himself in this precarious position right about when Aziraphale gave away is stupid sword. Aziraphale was novel from that first meeting; he engaged in conversation with Crowley despite knowing he was a demon, he went against God's plan to protect Her creations _immediately_ , he worried about that choice but made it anyway. He thinks that Aziraphale might just be what God had in mind when She created Angels; beings that can love without bounds and that protect the good regardless of any personal cost.

Those traits haven't made him popular among Angels and have rendered him even less liked among Demons. He's not predictable and Downstairs doesn't like that when it comes to their opposition. Crowley, as it turns out, likes that quite a bit. Well, it can't be helped. He's always been a piss-poor Demon by Hell's standards and he couldn't be fucked to care about the whole lot of them so it bothers him less than it should. 

He likes that his Angel (he'll indulge himself with the "his" just this once) is kind, and brilliant, and a _bloody hedonist_. In fact, he loves all of those things. Admitting it to himself is a double-edged sword; on one hand a niggling question in the back of his mind has been put to rest. On the other, he now has to deal with unrequited love which humans have been complaining about since the Beginning. He supposes he really has gone native.

He's just rolling himself a joint to, hopefully, put him in a twilight sleep (rest without nightmares) when he hears footsteps outside of the front door. Even his addled mind realizes that the jig may really be up. It could be Heaven or Hell waiting on the other side to take him out. He spares a moment to think of fleeing before he realizes that if they found him in the middle of nowhere, they would have _definitely_ found Aziraphale and he's up off the sofa and wrenching the door open before he can spell out his next thought.

Instead of celestial or infernal minions, he finds Aziraphale on the other side. They're not human and don't require sleep (although it's really quite nice when it isn't allowing your worst moment to play on repeat), but Aziraphale looks _exhausted._ There are dark circles under his eyes and his lips are turned down into a light frown, and his normally prim and proper appearance is replaced with a partially tucked in white oxford shirt, rumpled pants, no waist coat, and his favorite beige coat hanging slightly askew. He looks exhausted and he's the fucking best thing Crowley has ever laid his eyes on. Birds are chirping in his head (or maybe that's the weed), the Sun is shining, and he's just staring at the Angel like a maniac and has said a sum total of zero words to explain himself.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to. Once Aziraphale realizes that Crowley is, actually, standing in front of him and not discorporated or kidnapped or worse his concern burns red hot right past annoyed and straight into _righteous fucking rage._

"Anthony J. Crowley," Aziraphale grinds out, low and menacing. He's backing Crowley into the foyer and slamming the door rather pointedly behind him while continuing, "I have been looking for you for _five fucking days._ You fell asleep on my sofa, you woke up _screaming_ Crowley, you sounded like you were being doused in holy water, and then you _fucked off_ to God-knows-where because of a 'cramp'?"

Crowley has never, not once, been afraid of Aziraphale. He knows, logically, that you don't get to be a Principality without having fought. You don't get made the Angel of the Eastern Gate and given a flaming sword if you don't know how to use it. That being said, he's never really seen that side of Aziraphale and figured that maybe that was in the past. Until now, that is. He sees it now, the fire in those blue eyes, the unadulterated rage flowing off of the Angel in waves thick enough to choke, the way his jaw is locked and he's damn-near snarling at Crowley. He has to do a quick check of Aziraphale's general aura to make sure he didn't actually Fall for how furious he is. Then, as quickly as the rage came on, it seeps away and Crowley wants it back desperately because what's left in its wake is _worse._

Aziraphale's eyes brim with unshed tears and he can tell that the Angel is biting the inside of his cheek to keep them from falling. He heaves out a breath and deflates and walks past Crowley to kind of, collapse, for lack of a better term, into an armchair. 

Demons, traditionally, don't apologize. Apologies, by nature, are brought about out of regret, or shame, or guilt, which Demons typically don't have. Crowley, as mentioned before, is an _awful_ Demon so he finds himself collapsing in front of his Angel (okay, just one more time) on his knees, hands grabbing Aziraphale's and repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry" over and over until the words lose their meaning. He realizes later that he's started crying again, _fucking wonderful._

Then Aziraphale's hands are squeezing his and the right hand releases his to relocate to his hair. Crowley's somewhere between laughing in sheer relief at the comfort of the touch and sobbing at how perfect it is. He's still crying.

"I was there, Angel. When your shop burned down. I was inside and it was just _pouring_ flames. I didn't know if it was holy fire, hellfire, or regular fire, but your books were burning and I couldn't find you." He's hyperventilating he's sure of it. "I can _always_ find you. Always feel you but you were nowhere. And I just left. What point is there saving a world you wouldn't be in?" His head is hanging down, avoiding eye contact when he hears a sharp intake of breath above him. Aziraphale's other hand comes up to Crowley's cheek and slowly lifts his head so that he can look him in the eye and Crowley pauses the process mid-way. Belatedly he realizes that he didn't put his sunglasses on _again._ He has got to get his shit together. That being said, "In for a penny, in for a pound" as they say.

"Every time I close my eyes, Angel, I see it again. And I'm right back there, screaming for you or _somebody_ to help. I can't sleep. I haven't slept since." He finishes, sounding worn out and focusing intently on Aziraphale's cheek and lips (the latter being somewhat of a mistake, as Crowley's hindbrain commits it to memory) to avoid meeting his eye line.

When he can't avoid it any longer, he lifts his eyes the last inch or so and meets azure blue. He sees a steely resolve in that look. He's seen that look before and he starts to brace himself. That look means "There is no our side, not anymore." and "We're hereditary enemies." and "You go too fast for me, Crowley." It's hurt before, but this time is the Big One. He's rather shown his hand and, for better or worse (ugh), it's in Aziraphale's court.

The hand on his cheek slowly shifts and Aziraphale's thumb gently strokes under his eye. The Angel's expression shifts to something complicated and then settles on something akin to resigned.

"Crowley, I've been gone on you since the Flood. Surely you must know." He's giving Crowley an imploring stare and Crowley, for his part, is about to shake apart from emotion and tension alone. 

He wants to say so many things but his tongue, usually a multi-talented organ with a varied skillset, remains stubbornly stuck and thick in his mouth. What he does, and will never admit to, is make a sound something like, "Ngk!", and press his head into the Angel's shoulder. Aziraphale's arms immediately come around him, pulling him in tight and letting him wrap around him like a limpet. It's an awkward angle; it can't be comfortable for Aziraphale's back, leaned forward and taking some of Crowley's weight, and it's not doing Crowley's knees any favors either. He's wrung out but he just can't bring himself to let go.

Aziraphale has always has a sixth sense for what Crowley needs, so he speaks softly into Crowley's ear, "Your body is used to sleep, dearest. Not to be forward, but we could retire to the bedroom. I'll stay in case you have another nightmare, if you'd like."

Crowley is overwhelmed. He knows Aziraphale doesn't sleep so this is entirely a selfless gesture. After Crowley had, quite literally, run out on him. Even so, he finds himself nodding manically into Aziraphale's shoulder. They slowly extricate themselves from one another and, walking far too closely for comfort (but not really giving a rat's arse either), relocate to the small bedroom. Crowley's already in his pajamas, black silk, but looks over to Aziraphale who is wearing less than usual but still not dressed for comfort. 

As if noticing Crowley's concern, Aziraphale say, "Ah, here we are" and miracles himself a set of soft-looking tartan pajamas. Crowley's brain short circuits and he wonders just what happened to him. He's instigated orgies. He was around in Greece back in the day. How is it possible that _tartan pajamas_ are getting him going?

To distract himself Crowley moves to his side of the bed, still unmade from his last disastrous attempt at sleep, and gestures awkwardly to the other side of the bed. Immediately, he feels like he may have been presumptuous; Aziraphale may not want to actually _share_ the bed. "You can- Well. You can either sit here or lay here or sit, somewhere else." He trails off and just _knows_ that he looks uncomfortable.

Taking pity, Aziraphale moves to the opposite side of the bed and sits gingerly on the edge. "Come now, get settled" he says softly, all Angelic kindness, and Crowley lays down. His heart is racing and he's sure that when he closes his eyes it'll be flames again and that gnawing empty feeling he had sitting on the floor of a burning shop screaming to the Heavens. He is tried though; the kind of tired that comes from terror and grief and his body aches with it. Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, hands hovering over the top sheet before he gives a minute shake of his head and pulls the cover over Crowley's body. Before he thinks better of it, Aziraphale runs a hand through the wreck of Crowley's hair so gently the demon could cry from it.

Against his better judgement (not that his judgement is _ever_ particularly good, save for his taste in Angels and wine), he can feel himself start to slip off to sleep. In his last moments of awareness he feels one last wash of anxiety. He thinks he mumbled something but he drops into darkness too fast to confirm.

\---

_"Please not again."_

It'd been spoken in such a vulnerable tone that Aziraphale's heart very nearly shattered in his chest. He'd spent the last days being terribly worried and furious at the Demon for leaving him alone at the Beginning of a whole new life. He, selfishly he thinks now, hadn't really thought about how it had all affected Crowley. It's just that his Demon (yes, _his_. He'll say it for now while the aforementioned is snoozing next to him. He's never been great at denying himself indulgences) is always so _sure_ of himself. So sure it'll all work out. He never imagined that under the bravado and flash was fear. He definitely didn't figure that it'd be fear of _losing him_ that'd bring down such a confident creature.

Beside him Crowley makes a snuffling sound that ends on something Crowley would vehemently deny was a hiss, but Aziraphale finds just horribly endearing. He looks so calm like this; the same feeling he had in his shop that night washes over him. He's been in love with Crowley since their second meeting. While Aziraphale had been (uncomfortably) watching the events immediately prior to the Flood, Crowley had swept up behind him, all long copper curls and _gorgeous, heart-stopping_ yellow eyes just _aghast_ that they Almighty Herself would think to harm children. That was the first seed of doubt, and possibly one of the only ones Crowley didn't try to put into the Angel's head. His default setting was to protect (and mildly inconvenience) mankind. Aziraphale had struggled to identify, and later admit to, what the feeling that welled up in his chest was. He knows it now. Love. 

He's been, how would Crowley say it again-, _arse-over-tits_ for the Demon since then. It became impossible to deny in 1941 when he'd not only saved Aziraphale from certain discorporation (and an _unGodly_ amount of paperwork) but saved all of his prized books. The entire ride back to the bookshop had been spent trying not to stare besotted and unblinking at Crowley.

The Demon in question is starting to squirm restlessly and his breathing is picking up. Although Aziraphale has never known a Demon to have a nightmare (or a dream for that matter), Crowley's enough of an anomaly among Hell's ranks that the Angel didn't even question him. If there had been, though, the pained, scrunched look on Crowley's face and the way his hands were squeezing the bed covers would be proof enough. He lays down next to Crowley and starts to stroke his hair again. His hand travels down to stroke the finer hairs at the back of his neck, then trailing down to a silk clad shoulder and arm, then back up again. Surprisingly, Crowley settles down and, in quick turn, moves closer to Aziraphale and, well, kind of, _wraps himself around Aziraphale_. Not entirely unlike a big snake. Which Aziraphale supposes he kind of is.

He wants to wake Crowley and ask if it's okay for him to pull him closer, but he's just settled down. It's okay, he thinks, just this once to let himself have the one thing he's forced out of reach. The Angel brings his arms around Crowley and pulls him close. If he gets a little misty-eyed when the motion causes the last remnants of tension to bleed out of Crowley's body, it's neither here nor there.

\---

It's warm; that's the first thought that floats into Crowley's head upon waking. He's wonderfully, completely warm and everything is soft. Then his brain really kicks into gear and he remembers, _ugh_ , the crying (awful) and the hugging (much, much less awful). Then he promptly realizes that Aziraphale is not in the chair on the other side of the room, or sitting on the bed. Instead, he's _asleep_ which is weird enough on it's own, but he's also very, extremely, _intimately_ , tangled with Crowley. The Demon's head is pillowed on his chest and his arms are, in turn, locked like a vice grip around the Angel's midsection and buried under his neck, hand tangling in messy blonde curls. He's really very close to being laid across the Angel entirely. Their legs are all tangled together, with his left leg sort of hooked around one of Aziraphale's and hitched up, and Crowley realizes that his human body is somewhat giving him away, as his genitalia (when had he _Made the Effort_?) was rather insistently poking Aziraphale in the hip.

His dumb, ridiculous, _superfluous organ_ of a heart kicks into overdrive and he's sure Aziraphale will hear it and wake up any second. If he does, Crowley is going to discorporate from embarrassment immediately. While they'd both, to some extent, talked about _feelings_ the night (or day? week? Crowley's not great at gauging time) before they hadn't discussed anything in depth. Definitely not physical intimacy. Although Crowley, for one, is all for it. Big fan of physical intimacy, him. Luck isn't something Crowley thinks is on his side, under usual circumstances, but Aziraphale sleeps on and Crowley is almost relieved enough to send a prayer of thanks Upstairs.

He takes the opportunity to look at Aziraphale. He's beautiful like this; calm, quiet, perpetually furrowed brow smooth with sleep. He can smell him too. He always can, but right now he smells like floral musk, and good vanilla, and something earthy and _delicious_. It wouldn't take much for him to just shift his neck a little and nuzzle against the Angel's neck; make sure some of that scent rubs off on him. This thought leads to other, much more, hm, _explicit_ thoughts. Before he knows it his traitorous hips are pressing against the slight layer of padding over the Angel's hip to get some relief for his aching cock. In true fashion, Crowley has sown the seeds of his own destruction, as they say, because Aziraphale is slowly blinking awake.

His friend is, while perhaps a bit prudish, definitely not slow. He lifts his head slightly to the side and watches realization dawn on the Angel's face. He flicks his eyes down their bodies to take in the tangled mess of them, and then, with precision, focuses on his hip area where Crowley's definitely-not-insignificant erection is prodding things along. When they finally make eye contact Crowley is shocked by what he sees. There isn't a hint of resigned awkwardness, no guilt, no complicated feelings that amount to, "I love you dearest but not like that". Instead, there's just blazing layers of heat and barely restrained power and Crowley's on fire with it already.

"Please," he says (he does not whine, Demons _do not whine)_ , "If you can bring yourself to-, even just this once. _Please touch me._ " The strength he's exerting not to rock his hips into the Angel again is enviable and he has to use far more than Earth-born energy to accomplish it.

Suddenly, there's a surge of movement and Crowley is surprised to find himself flat on his back, with his hands pinned to the mattress, by an extremely enthusiastic and shockingly strong Angel.

"Now hear you me," Aziraphale starts. His voice is low and gravelly with sleep. It's doing _Things_ to Crowley. "I will not be bringing myself to do anything. I _want_ you Crowley, in all the ways you can want someone. I'd be honored to touch you. I've been waiting to touch you for _millennia."_

And enter the hyperventilating again. Crowley's never given his human organs this much of a workout before. His whole damn(ed) body is shaking and he's making small, unintelligible noises while he tries to break the Angel's grip to get just, _something,_ some kind of friction against his body. Preferably his groin, but Hell, he'd take a handshake at this point.

" _Fuck,_ Angel. You can't just say things like that and not-" he cuts off into a loud, wanton, _desperate_ moan when Aziraphale lowers himself on Crowley and immediately starts to suck and bite at the tendon in his neck. It feels like fire, it feels like _claiming_ and Crowley is so fucking here for it. It hits him like a ton of bricks that they haven’t even kissed yet. The only thing he’s fantasized about more than, roughly, what’s occurring right now is getting to kiss Aziraphale. Really kiss him. Like pour-your-heart-out, dramatically kiss in the rain, kiss him.

“Angel-, Aziraphale, get _up here_ , for Go-, Sat-, _fuck,_ for Somebody’s sake get up here so I can kiss you.” He’s rambling and, frankly, begging. Under normal circumstances he’d argue that Demons don’t beg, but clearly he _does._

Always obliging, Aziraphale comes up and releases on of his hands so that he can cup Crowley’s cheek. Crowley’s free hand immediately tangles itself back up in the Angel’s hair, trying to pull him down into a kiss but the Angel will not be moved.

Instead, he just strokes his fingers along Crowley’s face, moving down to his clavicle and looking his fill. Finally, he moves his hand to the side of Crowley’s neck, slightly tilts his face up, and brushes his lips against Crowley’s. It’s achingly slow and gentle. Crowley loves it, and any other time it’d be enough to send him careening into pleasure, but he’s so worked up that he just wants Aziraphale to _devour_ him. He makes a broken, impatient noise in his throat and angles his head against Aziraphale’s and finally, _finally_ , he’s really kissing his Angel.

His lips are as soft as they look and, when Crowley drags his tongue across his bottom lip, Aziraphale groans, presses Crowley further into the mattress, and moves his hand just slightly so that it’s at Crowley’s throat. He knows that Aziraphale would never hurt him, but the power thrumming under Aziraphale’s skin, and the dominant gesture undoes something in Crowley and he’s moaning, long and loud, and straining to press his throat more firmly against Aziraphale’s hand.

It isn’t choking; it’s just light pressure and Aziraphale is staring pointedly into Crowley’s eyes. They’re panting into each other’s mouths, breathing the shared air between them, and he grinds out another wanton, “Please” before Aziraphale snaps his fingers and its skin-on-skin.

“Ngk!” Crowley says (again, somehow) and thrusts his hips up against Aziraphale’s, which are thrusting down, and their cocks drag along each other and its bliss. It’s so _hot_ and Aziraphale is hitching Crowley’s leg up onto his hip for better leverage which is just _so much better_. “I’m not sure what, _oh,_ your end game is here Angel, but if you keep doing that this is going to be over rather quick.” He rushes it all out because he’s sure he’s going to come any second, like some two-pump chump, and he needs Aziraphale to know.

Evidently, hearing the effect he’s having on Crowley is enough to kick Aziraphale into high gear (which, shockingly, he _wasn’t_ in already).

“There is something I want,” he says slowly, shyly (which is just ridiculous considering their position), “I’ve been thinking about it for centuries, possibly longer.” Aziraphale looks down between them at Crowley’s cock and licks his lips suggestively. Well, there’s really no mistaking the intent, Crowley thinks.

“Yes, _God_ , please that.” He moans out, not caring about the bitter taste the blaspheming leaves in his mouth. What’s more significant, he thinks, is that he receives no reproachful look from his friend (lover). Instead, Aziraphale is relocating further down his body. He lays kisses on Crowley’s thighs that feel like worship. He licks along the seam of thigh and pelvis and groans which makes Crowley shiver. Then, finally, he’s laying sucking kisses along Crowley’s shaft before lifting his head, fixing Crowley with a downright _filthy_ grin, and swallowing him to the root.

He screams, he’s sure of it, but how could he not? His cock is surrounded by warm, wet heat and he’s so horribly in love that he feels like he might transcend his human form. He’s terrified, for a millisecond, that he may just revert back to snake form but luckily, he has just enough of a hold on his psyche to keep himself corporeal as a human so that he doesn’t lose that life-altering suction between his legs. Doing this with someone who doesn’t have to breathe is a revelation.

Pulling off with a wet pop, Aziraphale raises his head and says, “You taste _divine_ love. I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough. Look at you, I want to _ruin_ you.” And his voice is lower than Crowley’s ever heard it and he’s gritting his teeth close to the point of breaking so that he doesn’t come from that alone. It feels like he’s been on a razor’s edge for ages.

“Yes, fuck, whatever you want just _please don’t stop.”_ He groans it out and it sounds desperate, but he is desperate, so he supposes that’s fine. He threads both hands through his Angel’s hair and tries to gently encourage him back to his previous post. And Aziraphale, ever the people-pleaser, smirks and swallows him to the root, adding a bit more suction and running one hand down to tug at his balls. Aziraphale pulls off again to lick around the shaft, paying extra attention to the sensitive underside of the head, puts on hand low on Crowley’s stomach and the fingers of the other hand trail back to press lightly against the perineum and smooth lightly, so, so lightly, over his hole.

“Someday, I want to be in you, right here,” he presses just slightly harder. Just the pad of his finger, “possessing you completely. I want to be in you so deep that you can’t tell where you end, and I begin.” It’s said like a benediction against his skin and when Aziraphale impales himself on Crowley again it takes an embarrassingly short period of time before he’s coming, blazing hot, down his lover’s throat crying out into the dark of the room.

He’s panting and boneless and, again, wouldn’t be shocked to find himself in snake form. His fingers are carding gently through blonde curls and it takes him a moment to realize that the sound in the air is a litany from his own lips; a recurring string of “ _Thank you, I love you, Thank you, I love you.”_

“Azi-, ‘Zira, _Angel_. What do you want? Anything, I’ll give you anything, everything.” He’s pushing Aziraphale over onto his back and trying to maintain as much bodily contact as he can, alternating between pressing quick hard kisses to his mouth, jaw, and neck.

“Dear, I want to do everything with you, but after watching that I doubt I’ll be able to hold on for more than your hand.” The Angel has the nerve to look _apologetic_ of all things and it startles a laugh from Crowley. He let’s his hand snake down the Angel’s chest, his mouth migrates to a nipple to lick and suck, and finally closes his hand around the Angel’s cock.

He realizes in short turn that he didn’t get a chance to really look at Aziraphale’s cock. This is important because when he closes his hand around it, he realizes that it really is, quite- well. One could say that the Angel endowed himself rather well.

“Fuck Angel, I can’t wait to have this inside me. It’ll damn near split me in two. Fuck, you better be ready for round two.” This, he can do. He can speak filth into his lover’s ear to ratchet things up. If the moan Aziraphale lets out is any indication, he’s done his job well.

“Oh, _oh,_ Crowley, dear, love, I’m nearly-, your _voice,_ I’m going to, _OH_ ”. And he comes hard, twitching, all over Crowley’s hand.

He rests his head against Aziraphale’s while they catch their breath, and then moves his hand to his mouth and, while making eye contact, licks it clean. He allows himself to put on a little show, and moans loudly at the taste.

Even in the dim light of the room, he can see Aziraphale’s eyes dilate a little more. Perhaps round two will happen sooner than he expected.

When Crowley lays down, head on Aziraphale’s chest and leg thrown over his hips, he realizes that they, roughly, in the same position he woke up in. He feels fingers threading through his hair and purrs at the sensation.

“I love you too, you know.” Aziraphale says after a spell. “I won’t hold you to it if it was ‘in the heat of the moment’ as they say, but, I do so adore you.”

“I mean it. I’ve always meant it. I’ll always mean it.” Crowley says quickly to alleviate any niggling concern the Angel has. Aziraphale pulls him impossibly closer and they wrap around each other, snuggling (Crowley would call it _anything_ but that) up beneath the blankets for a reprieve.

“I think, maybe, just a quick rest?” and Aziraphale, shockingly, agrees.

“Yes, dear. Rest.” And with a smirk that is not angelic _at all_ finishes with, “You’ll need it.”

Crowley’s jaw drops and his spent cock gives a twitch of interest while he lets out a helpless little noise. “What have I gotten myself into?” He jokes.

“Hopefully, I’ll rather get myself into yo-“Aziraphale tries to say before he finds Crowley’s hand over his mouth.

“Angel, I love that you enjoy a bit of dirty talk. You’re surprising and I _love it._ I love you. But if you keep talking like that, you’re going to _kill me._ I’ll discorporate right here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, “I’m going to have _so much fun_ with you.”

Crowley, for one, can’t wait.


End file.
